The spike chatters in its notch, then begins to sing the three low notes that have followed us since Pier Four.
"Ease," Ariad says.
We ease one cleat, tighten the other, and the load slides along Chalk paths like a thought into the right sentence. The wrong pattern flares, sulks, and fades. The Reach Gun spike stops shivering, hum settled.
The inflatables backed off as if someone whistled on a channel. They idle, then plane east. The baton man will wake on a dock and tell a story where he was funnier.
Kade exhales. "We're done."
We reel in Minnow. Unclip the line. Ariad retracts the Reach Gun and pats the arm like it worked above its pay grade.
We do not cross the line.
I look anyway. The vector runs on spike heads so clean it hurts—three–one–three, three–one–three, then… nothing. A gap. A pylon that should exist and doesn't on the chart. A place where the hum bleeds out of the map exactly where Zann said it would.
Juno follows my eyes. "No."
"Not today," I say.
"Not like this," she says.
Kade tethers his pen back to his badge with a quiet click. "Back," he says. "We have enough rope to hang someone with paperwork."
We turn the barge. The city grows out of gray like a promise it will break later.
Inside the mile, Mia hands me her tablet. The thread is open. The last nail sits on my tongue.
IF YOU WALK IT CLEAN, YOU'LL FIND WHAT THEY FED THE GRID.
IF YOU RUN, YOU'LL FIND A FUNERAL.
"Zann?" Ariad asks.
"Yeah."
Juno doesn't say which option is us. She says, "Dock. Debrief. Sleep."
Kade stands at the bow and watches the mile buoy swallow the vector. He looks like a man about to request a permit that changes his life.
The hum returns to the city's base note. It doesn't sound relieved.
We tie up. Fake smiles for harbor cops who got called late. Copy footage to too many drives. Stack the orange tags back in their bin.
Ariad circles the vector on her printed map. "Whoever laid these braces wanted us to see that arrow."
"Or wanted us to follow it," Mia says.
"Same thing until it isn't," Juno says.
We take the back hallway to a borrowed conference room that smells like old donuts and fresh toner. Kade drops forms like bricks: labor logs, gel samples, a draft request for an emergency extension beyond the mile. "No promises," he says. "I'll make the call."
"Marine Ops window?" Juno asks.
"Dawn or nothing," Mia says. "Tide gives us a slim slot. After that, surge and wind."
"Gear changes?" Ariad asks.
"Longer Reach Gun arm," she says to herself. "Heavier cleats. Second Minnow battery. Earplugs." She pencils it like a grocery list and underlines earplugs twice.
I step into the hall because my phone is hot in my hand, and I'm weak where my brother is concerned.
DON'T STAND ON WHAT YOU CAN'T NAME.
LOOK WHERE THE ANCHORS HUM OUT.
Open water ping. Beyond the mile. Beyond the forms on Kade's desk.
I don't show them.
Back inside, Mia maps the shoreline on the whiteboard: dots where three–one–three sings, mossy clusters where sabotage lives, and the clean arrow pointing toward that dark seam. She draws a tiny boat at the mile. She draws a bigger question mark beyond it.
"We walk from here to the headland at dawn," Ariad says. "See what lights."
"Samsara is outside your permit," I say.
Kade hears and pretends he didn't. "We touch only what I can sign," he says. "If we step over, we do it because a pylon will fall if we don't."
"Understood," Juno says, which isn't agreement; it's a plan.
Mia rubs her eyes. "I'll sleep when the backups finish."
"Sleep now," Juno says. "Backups don't need you staring at them to be brave."
Kade pauses at the door. "Dilhevia," he says, neutral. "Thank you for not improvising out there."
"I did," I say, honestly.
"I know," he says. "Thank you for doing it with a rope attached."
He leaves to go argue with a clock and a mayor, and a sea that doesn't care.
We pack. Ariad stows the Reach Gun in padded foam like it's a pet. I lay a hand on the cold arm and imagine one more meter of reach, the clean thunk of a spike into wood that isn't on the map.
"Tomorrow," Juno says.
"Tomorrow," I echo.
My phone buzzes like a reflex I hate.
I don't look.
Not yet.
At dawn, the permit ends, and the arrow keeps going.